


It's Called: Freefall

by Antimonicacid



Series: Sylvain's Therapy Log [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Child Abuse, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Meta, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, its a heavy one yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimonicacid/pseuds/Antimonicacid
Summary: Sylvain is six years old and in his small body he already contains a multitude of identities. Sylvain is a friend and Sylvain is a brother and Sylvain is a son and Sylvain is a fighter. Sylvain is a grin that catches on the edges and Sylvain is the sound of laughter bouncing against the walls of a room. Sylvain is sunburned freckles and Sylvain is the drop in your gut when you leap into a pond for the first time that summer.Sylvain is many things, some more real than others, but there is one thing he is not.Sylvain is not a child.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier & Miklan
Series: Sylvain's Therapy Log [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804330
Comments: 11
Kudos: 126





	It's Called: Freefall

**Author's Note:**

> this is almost entirely about sylvain dealing with abuse from miklan. it's a bit heavy altho i try to avoid anything graphic. still! please be mindful of yourself! i'll try and list more detailed trigger warns in notes at end.

Sylvain is six years old and in his small body he already contains a multitude of identities. Sylvain is a friend and Sylvain is a brother and Sylvain is a son and Sylvain is a fighter. Sylvain is a grin that catches on the edges and Sylvain is the sound of laughter bouncing against the walls of a room. Sylvain is sunburned freckles and Sylvain is the drop in your gut when you leap into a pond for the first time that summer.

Sylvain is many things, some more real than others, but there is one thing he is not.

Sylvain is not a child.

He walks beside Miklan, kicking up dirt with each step and watching it falls in clouds against the shining leather of his boot. It leaves it textured and dusty. Miklan hasn’t snapped at him to stop, at least not yet, and Sylvain hums as he drags the heel of his boot against the dirt path.

The sun is high in the sky and Sylvain knows that that means it’s almost noon. He squints upwards at it, fascinated by the way the air around it shimmers and leaps, and he thinks that summertime is good. He thinks summertime is good with the way the trees are green and how grass buzzes alive with bugs. He likes that the air is hot. How it leaves his skin sticky to the touch and makes it that much better when he gulps down iced water.

Summertime is good because it means his mom can tell Miklan to take him to go swimming. Miklan huffs and Miklan complains, but in the end even he desires the coolness of the lake more than he wants to be left alone.

“ _Teenagers_ ,” Sylvain’s father had said once and left his explanation at that.

Miklan is thirteen and so are his friends. They wave and holler when they see the two of them approach. Sylvain feels a pang of loneliness in his chest as he looks around and recognizes no one else, but he pushes past it and waves to Miklan’s friends as well.

“Aw man,” one of Miklan’s friends sucks his teeth when he sees Sylvain. He’s the one with dark brown hair cut close to his scalp. Sylvain thinks the short haircut looks cool, even if he doesn’t always like the person wearing it. “She made you bring him, _again_?” he complains.

Miklan rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah. Babysitting duty.”

“What a sweet older brother you are,” one of the others says in a high, mocking tone. He’s the one who ties his hair back in a bun and laughs like a yowling cat.

“Can he swim?” the third doesn’t direct his question to Sylvain, but at Miklan instead. He’s Sylvain’s least favorite. His eyes are too blue, and he doesn’t blink often enough for Sylvain’s tastes.

“I don’t know,” Miklan says even though he does. “Syl, can you swim?” he asks.

Sylvain shrugs his thin shoulders and doesn’t answer.

“Do you not know?” The one with the weird eyes asks and the others laugh.

“He doesn’t know?”

“Poor kid.”

“Miklan, why doesn’t he know?”

“Can you swim? Answer the question.”

Sylvain doesn’t look at the group of boys. He stares past them to the lake, watching its cool, blue-green ripples, and wondering how which part the shallow side is.

“Hey,” Miklan grabs him from under his armpits and lifts him.

Sylvain kicks out on instinct. Nothing good can ever come from being picked up unexpectedly.

“Stop that, Syl!” Miklan shakes his frame. “I’m teaching you science, okay? I’m showing you how to run an experiment.”

Sylvain scratches at the hands holding onto him and Miklan swears and shakes him again. He wants to be let down, he doesn’t know what’s coming, but he doesn’t like it regardless.

“Experiment number one!” Miklan yells out as his friends cheer. “Can he swim?”

With a huff Miklan tosses him into the air and suddenly Sylvain is wind. Sylvain is the leaves in the air and Sylvain is the bugs that buzz overhead late at night. Sylvain is a cloud high in the sky and Sylvain is a brick plummeting to the ground.

Sylvain is a rock that doesn’t skip when thrown at the wrong angle. He’s a sinking ship lost to sea. Sylvain is the pockets of air forming bubbles underwater. He’s the sun burning in his throat. Sylvain is a whirlpool. Sylvain is spots of color bursting in his vision. Sylvain is the slick algae on rocks and Sylvain is the lost boot at the bottom of the lake.

Sylvain is drowning.

Sylvain is dying.

Sylvain knows this.

And then he is being pulled above surface. He holds tight onto the arms yanking him roughly towards the shore. He spits and he coughs with snot burning in his nose and tears streaming from his eyes.

“M-Miklan,” he calls for his brother.

The boy with pale blue eyes scoffs while tossing him onto shore. He follows behind and shakes his wet blond hair at the rest of his friends who yell for him to stop.

Sylvain gulps down raspy breaths of air in between sobs, curling in on himself and holding his knees, he realizes he lost his shoe.

“Why’d you do that?” Miklan slaps the boy with weird eyes on the back of his head. “Nobody told you to do that!” Miklan’s spitting angry as he yells him. Sylvain hates it when he’s like that. It makes his face turn an ugly red that looks like he’s choking on his temper.

“He wasn’t coming back up,” the boy with the weird eyes defends himself.

“So what?” Miklan says.

Sylvain coughs on the ground beside him, but no matter how much he spits he can’t make the taste of lake water leave his mouth.

* * *

Sylvain gets in trouble for losing his boot at the lake. Or, really Miklan does.

“How hard is it to watch after your younger brother? You’re nearly a man and yet the simplest of tasks are–“

Sylvain blocks out the rest of it. He sits in his room and plays with the box of color pencils and paper one of the kitchen staff had given him for his birthday last week.

He draws a lake, and he draws himself holding a cool sword. He draws a tree and underneath it he draws a dragon that spits water. He draws Miklan with his red face, and he draws each one of Miklan’s friends. This one is a dog with short hair. This one is a cat with teeth that don’t fit inside his mouth. This one is a pair of eyes that float.

Sylvain draws himself again. This time he adds wings and a halo above his head.

When he’s finished, he shoves all of it in his hiding place between the frame of his bed and the mattress.

* * *

Sylvain is seven and he finds something spectacular. Past the garden and in the shed, there is a small family of kittens sleeping behind a bag of soil. He’s fascinated by them. For three days in a row he pulls pieces of meat from his meal and slips it into the pockets of his trousers. After dinner he sneaks out of the house to leave the scraps of chicken and beef and pork where the mother cat can find it.

It’s the fourth day that he gets caught. When he turns the corner behind the rose bush and sees Miklan standing at the shed’s door his heart stops. It’s too late to turn around and Sylvain puts his hands in his pockets and tries to walk casually.

“Whatcha doing?” He asks Miklan.

“I’m waiting for you,” Miklan answers.

Sylvain squints up at him and doesn’t say anything.

“I was talking to the gardener, you know, Old Joe? Yeah, I was talking to Old Joe and he asked me to be nice and break the news for him,” Miklan sighs and holds a hand to his chest.

“Okay,” Sylvain’s already learned that neutrality is the best response.

“We have a rat problem. It’s really embarrassing, actually,” Miklan scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, rats in the shed so I asked Old Joe to take care of it and–“

“Shut up,” Sylvain interrupts him. “You’re lying.”

Miklan widens his eyes in faux insult. “Since when do I lie? We really _really_ do have rats. So Old Joe had to come and take care of them and all.”

Sylvain crosses his arms and glares, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Go on,” Miklan steps away from the door. “Look if you wanna. The rat nest behind the bag of soil is all gone and being cooked into your dinner.”

Miklan barely gets the word “soil” out of his mouth before Sylvain is shoving past him into the shed. It’s empty. Empty of the kittens who don’t yet know how to open their eyes. Empty of the mother who watches him with distrust while he coos and pushes scraps of meat towards her.

“What did you do?” Sylvain yells at him, not a single part of his soul believing Miklan to be innocent.

“Don’t blame me,” Miklan says. “I’m just the messenger here to let you know.”

And Sylvain is a storm cloud crashing down onto a tree. Sylvain is an eagle swooping down on a fox. Sylvain is the crash of waves against the sand and he is the yell of a warrior king. He’s the fury of an untamable forest fire and he’s the bruise left behind by lance against armor. He collides into his brother, screaming and swinging, and for a second he’s what happens when nature bites back.

And then Sylvain is the porcelain thrown on the kitchen floor. He’s the doormat muddy boots are wiped on. He’s a worn path through a mountain. He’s bread being kneaded into compliancy. He’s in the air like a ball tossed too high and he’s flat on the ground being compressed into a fossil. He’s the scream of cicadas forgotten in the background. He’s the cry of a kitten, separated too soon from his mother.

* * *

“I should wallop both of you,” Old Joe complains while holding a blood stain cloth to Sylvain’s nose. “Ridiculous. Fighting like animals at your age. Come on, stop that sniveling.”

Sylvain squirms at his hold.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps as he tilts Sylvain’s head back. “It won’t stop bleeding unless you stay still. Here, hold it.” He sighs and clucks his tongue at Sylvain’s torn-up clothing.

“Should be ashamed of yourself, Miklan. Beatin’ on your baby brother like that.”

“He started it,” Miklan whines. “Ask him. He started it.”

“Doesn’t matter who started it because I ended it,” Old Joe hits Miklan in the back of his knee with the wooden handle of the rake. “Are you still crying?” he asks, turning back to Sylvain.

“The cats,” Sylvain’s voice is muffled as he pinches his nose closed. “The cats– he took the– Miklan he– the cats!” Sylvain cries out.

Old Joe frowns. “What about them? I moved them this morning. Nancy’s looking after them. It’s not safe in there,” he jerks his chin towards the shed. “If you knew about them earlier you should’ve told me so I could– Miklan! Are you laughing? What did you tell this boy? The Goddess doesn’t like ugly, you know.”

Sylvain hiccups and rubs at his eyes with his sleeve. It stings and he whimpers.

Old Joe sighs. “Do you want to come see them? Like I just said, Nancy has them right now. They’re safer there. Come on, there’s no need to cry like that.”

Sylvain shakes his head. He doesn’t want to see them. He doesn’t want to see those cats ever again.

* * *

It’s when he’s eight that Sylvain starts making tiny agreements. He starts to bargain with someone or something, he’s not really sure. It’s easy enough, the deals are stacked in his favor.

If he can only step on the dark color tiles, then his morning will be good. If he can open and close all the curtains in the house, then his day will be okay. He crosses every threshold with his left foot first, and sometimes if it still doesn’t feel right, he’ll do it all over just to be sure.

Bedtime is the most important time of them all, and each night his routine grows more complex. He checks that his windows are closed, and he adjusts his curtains in a specific rhythm. He removes his clothes in a certain order, and lights and relights his oil lamp until it burned down to a certain degree.

There are three things he stacks in front of his door each night: the heaviest chest he can move on his own, his collection of tin cans he stole from the kitchen that make a loud noise when knocked over, and a shiny rock that looks like a rainbow in the light. The last one is important. It has good blessings. It’s the best protection he can construct.

It has to be specific and it has to be purposeful. He needs to hold intentionality in his every action or else the deal won’t mean anything.

He’s not sure if it’s working, all the agreements he’s stacking up in his favor, but he figures he needs all the help he can get.

* * *

Sylvain is eight when Miklan waves three gold pieces in front of his face. Three’s a good number. It’s round and lucky.

“This is serious business, Syl. We can’t have you fucking up,” Miklan reminds him.

“He’s gonna fuck up,” The Cat one complains.

“He better not,” The Dog barks.

“Shut up,” The One With Eyes hisses.

“Syl!” Miklan snaps in front of his face. “Are you listening? You can’t fuck this up. If you do, do you know what’ll happen?” Miklan asks.

Sylvain shakes his head.

“You’ll go to jail,” Miklan tells him. “You’ll go to jail and mom will cry and you’ll never be allowed to leave, okay? Jail sucks.”

“I heard they rip your balls off in it,” The Cat says, and everyone laughs as Sylvain crosses his legs.

The One With Eyes bores holes into his head as he tells him, “Don’t fuck up or you’ll lose your balls, got it?”

Sylvain nods.

Miklan and his friends enter the storefront first and Sylvain trails behind them. They split apart at the produce section, and when the group turns towards the side that has candy on display, Sylvain slips away into the cracked door of the backroom. He can hear Miklan asking the store owner questions about the selections as he rummages through the papers on the desk. There are some copies of bills and lists of inventories that he ignores. Finally, pulling out a drawer Sylvain finds it.

Sylvain grabs the magazine with the sultry looking ladies on the cover and shoves it into the waistband of his pants. Outside he can hear the store owner yell as someone accidentally knocks over something with a crash. Sylvain crawls out from the backroom on his hands and knees and scurries behind one of the shelves. He catches the attention of The One With Eyes who mimes opening a book. Sylvain gives him a thumbs up before standing up straight and walking casually out of the store.

Behind him The Dog and Cat are bickering with the owner about whether they’re trying to pinch some candy or not. Sylvain ignores it as he exits, and as soon as he’s out of sight of the owner he sprints away from the store as fast as he can.

A few minutes later Miklan and his group find him waiting by the pier.

“Did you get it?” Miklan asks.

“I bet he didn’t,” The Dog says.

“He got it,” The One With Eyes confirms for him.

Sylvain nods and pulls the magazine out from under his shirt and hands it to them. There’s a flurry of excited cheers as they fight over it until Miklan slaps them away.

“Good job, Syl!” Miklan praises him.

Sylvain holds his hand out. “Gold,” he instructs.

Miklan snorts and rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stingy.”

“I did it!” Sylvain argues. “Give me it or I’ll tell mom that–“ he’s stopped as he grabbed by his hair and yanked forward.

Sylvain is a windchime, ringing in the fall air. Sylvain is an apple, dangling and ready to be plucked from the branch.

“Or you’ll what?” Miklan growls into his ear. “Tell mom that you’re a thief? You gonna tell her that you’re a dirty little criminal?”

“Jail is awful,” The One With Eyes reminds him.

“Rip his balls off!” The Cat calls out.

Sylvain is smoke being held in a fist. Sylvain is a river pushing at the bounds of a dam with all its might.

“Hold still, Syl,” Miklan complains as Sylvain kicks and scratches.

Sylvain is hay tossed into a loft. Sylvain is a sack discarded on the barn’s floor. Sylvain is a tire being tested for air. Sylvain is an ant being crushed under foot.

“I can’t stand you,” Miklan spits at him. “Here,” he says and rips a page out of the magazine that he crumples and throws at Sylvain’s head. “Payment. Now leave us alone.”

Sylvain is a rock. Sylvain is the stump of a tree. He is invisible and still as he waits for the footsteps to disappear.

He stands up and dusts his pants off. He grabs the paper off the ground. It’s a detailed illustration of a woman. There’s very little left to the imagination. He shoves it into his pocket and walks home.

* * *

Sylvain is nine and he has friends of his own that he likes a lot more than Miklan’s. He plays with his friends and he gets to be something new. He slides out of his skin like a hare shedding its winter coat and then he isn’t Sylvain anymore, he’s something so much better than that. He’s a friend, he’s a comrade. He a figure to look up to, he’s part of the group. He gets to blend into the group. A secret agent. A species all on his own. They don’t know that he doesn’t belong.

Sylvain likes it when he’s allowed to sleep over. Sometimes it’s for days on end. He’ll run through the halls of Dimitri’s palace and he’ll take turns jumping summersaults into the pond behind Felix’s house. They catch bugs and they play tag and they wrestle in the spring grass and if Sylvain says “stop, that hurts” then they stop.

He’s nine and he’s already spent three days at Felix’s place. In the morning his father will send for one of their staff to bring him home and as the hours tick closer Sylvain stomach twists itself into deeper knots.

“Is it the food?” Rodrigue asks while placing a hand on his forehead. “I’d hate for your father to think we keep poisoning you.”

Sylvain shakes his head and assures him that the food is fine. He just wants to lie down.

It only takes a few minutes until Felix is ignores his father’s warning to stay away and he sneaks into the guest room to peek on Sylvain.

“Does your tummy still hurt?” Felix asks.

“A little bit,” Sylvain admits while sitting up. “But it’ll feel better soon.”

Felix nods and sits beside him on the bed. “If you feel better, we can catch fireflies,” Felix tells him as if he’s haggling for fruit prices.

“I’ll work on it, okay?” Sylvain agrees. “You can go play with Glenn if you wanna. I don’t mind.”

Felix shrugs. “Dad’s tutoring him right now.”

“Is someone supposed to be tutoring you right now?” Sylvain asks.

Felix turns his head away guiltily. He sticks his nose up in the air and tells him, “My tutor's busy. He’s tryna talk to the kitchen maid and told me to do parry drills.”

Sylvain doesn’t know why he says it. It’s just something dumb he heard Miklan throw out a few times before. He doesn’t know why he says it.

“Oh, he’s trying to get pussy,” he tells him as if it’s fact.

* * *

A week later Rodrigue pays a visit to Sylvain’s house. Sylvain stands at his father’s side, trying to fade away behind his legs while Rodrigue gestures towards him.

“Felix said he learned it from Sylvain,” Rodrigue says and Sylvain flushes red.

Sylvain’s father shakes his head. “You have an older boy. He could’ve picked it up from him.”

“Glenn’s not even eleven yet–“

“But my son’s old enough to be some horrible corrupting force for your pure little–“

“I’m sorry!” Sylvain squeaks out and holds tight onto his father’s pant leg. “I didn’t know,” he has to push his words out from behind a lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t know I don’t want Felix to get in trouble I’m sorry I–“

“Nobody’s in trouble,” Rodrigue says with worry in his voice.

“Dammit, Sylvain,” his father says exasperated and annoyed.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain repeats once more.

He’s sent to the next room to wait as they speak. Sylvain presses his ear against the door and listens in on the conversation in the parlor.

“I’m just worried,” Rodrigue sounds tired as he talks, and guilt gnaws on the edges of Sylvain’s stomach. “They shouldn’t even _know_ that language and yet–“

“They’re just boys,” his father argues. “For fuck’s sake, Rodrigue can you tone it down.”

“If he were one of my boys then–“

“But he’s not, now is he? I’ll deal with it and he’ll be punished and it’s fine.”

Rodrigue sighs. “I didn’t say to punish him.”

“Then what?”

Sylvain steps away from the door, clutching his stomach and feeling pale. Embarrassment floods though him. He feels exposed, like his disguise had been ripped away leaving him bare and gawked at. His stomach hurts, his chest is too tight, everything burns, and he doesn’t know what to do to make it stop.

He’s a fox in a hen house. He’s the worm in an apple. He’s the spoiled produce that turns the rest bad. He’s the wasp invading the honey hive.

Sylvain’s the dark stain that ruins the whole picture. He’s the piece of furniture that throws the whole room off. Sylvain is an invasion. Sylvain is a trick of the light. Sylvain’s the alien that strayed too far from home. Sylvain’s a creature who thought it could pretend to be people too.

“Sylvain?” Rodrigue breaks through the fog of his thoughts.

Sylvain stands up straight and wipes the corner of his eye clean. “Sorry, Mr. Fraldarius,” he tells him.

Rodrigue ruffles the top of his head. “It’s alright. You didn’t know.”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything.

“Does your tummy hurt again?” Rodrigue asks.

Sylvain looks down at his feet.

Rodrigue sighs and crouches down so he’s at eye level with him. Sylvain looks past him and counts the number of blue stripes on the wallpaper. “You know you can always talk to me if you have a problem, right?”

Sylvain nods.

Rodrigue stays there for a moment longer, as if he’s debating saying anything more, but he doesn’t. He stands up and pats him on the head before leaving without another word. Sylvain doesn’t hear him say goodbye to his father either.

Sylvain’s father groans while pushing open the door. “What a fucking pansy,” he complains before sending Sylvain outside to play.

* * *

At age ten Sylvain becomes an expert at making bargains, but the deals grow more and more complex with each one. It feels less like a game stacked in his favor and more like a seesaw where his end hangs over a cliff. The stakes are becoming higher, the consequences more drastic, and when he falls into a well that winter all he can think about is how he forgot to enter the kitchen with his left foot that morning.

He’s pulled out of the well and he’s dressed in clean clothes and warm blankets while soup and hot drinks are shoved down his throat. He sleeps for a day straight and when he wakes up, he makes sure to do all his daily routines twice to make up for lost time.

Sylvain throws when his bedsheets are changed from blue to yellow without his permission and when Miklan hears he laughs and starts to call him princess.

Sylvain doesn’t like that. It makes his skin crawl in a way the other insults don’t, but he’s smart and he finds a work around for it. Miklan insults him and Sylvain traces a pattern into his palm when he’s not looking. He draws it with his fingertip. It’s a circle with a zig zag running through it, a stripped down version of his crest. He starts to draw it in discreet places around his house. On the legs of chairs and underneath of locks. He doodles it in the margins of his schoolwork. He climbs under his bed and draws three rows of a dozen on the planks holding his mattress up.

It’s a ward, it’s a do-over, it’s all Sylvain’s got. It works for other things too. If he thinks something mean, if he thinks something cruel and disgusting that shows who he’s really is inside, then Sylvain can cancel it out.

He’s starting to get angrier, faster and easier than before, and that scares him. When he wants to smash his plate against the floor, then he draws three wards on the back of his hand.

When he misses a step in training and wants to throw his lance at his tutor instead he traces the ward with the tip of his shoe five times.

When Felix annoys him and Sylvain wants to hit him in the face with a rock, Sylvain scratches the ward on the underside of his arm and holds tight onto the stinging flesh until the feeling passes.

It’s a lot of time and it’s a lot of work, but whatever game Sylvain is playing against life is one he’s starting to lose, and he needs all the help he can get.

* * *

“Oh, Princess!” Miklan calls his name as Sylvain ducks into the shed behind the garden.

He’s ten and he’s becoming too big to squeeze himself behind the old wheelbarrow, but he can still manage for now. There’s some soil spilled next to him and he draws a small series of circles into it as Miklan and his friends yell for him outside.

On the sixth drawing, their voices start to fade away and Sylvain sighs. He leans his head against the soft wood of the shed and focuses on counting his breaths. It’s cooler in here. He thinks he could fall asleep here if he wanted to. By now the smell of mildew and fertilizer is a comfort. He thinks he could live here and be happy.

There’s a bang as the door of the shed is thrown open. “Where o’ where is the beautiful princess?” Miklan declares into the small space.

Sylvain is a mouse. Sylvain is the dust on the ground. Sylvain is dirt lost in the sand. Sylvain is a needle in the haystack.

 _Princess_ echoes against the walls as Miklan’s friends mimic his call. They’re pulling pots off the shelves and overturning the rakes leaning against the walls. The Cat yelps when Miklan finds the hose and threatens to spray him with it, and The Dog’s distracted throwing flowerpots onto the ground. It’s The One With Eyes that tilts the wheelbarrow back and smiles wide at his find.

Sylvain is grabbed by his arm and now Sylvain is a hornet’s nest. He’s the sharp edges of a rose bush. He’s the secret poisonous pins on a caterpillar’s back.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” Miklan yells while he aims the garden hose at the two of them.

The One With Eyes swears and throws Sylvain on the ground as Miklan drenches Sylvain from head to toe.

Sylvain runs for the door and hands without owners throw him back down.

Sylvain runs for the door and hands without owners throw him back down.

Sylvain runs for the door and hands without owners throw him back down.

“Aw, you got her all wet,” The Dog says in fake sympathy.

“That’s what she said!” The Cat claims his high fives.

“It’s unladylike.”

“She’ll catch a cold.”

“We can help–“

Hands without owners grab at him from every direction. Pulling on his clothes and scratching his skin.

And Sylvain is a hurricane searching for the coast. And Sylvain is a tornado spinning out of control. And Sylvain is an avalanche falling without end. And Sylvain is the fireflies shaken in a jar. And Sylvain is the rock tumbling off the cliff’s side. 

And Sylvain is the rabbit’s corpse dropping back to earth as the eagles circles. 

And Sylvain is the fish gasping and confused on the ships deck while his scales are pulled away. 

And Sylvain is the bone, meatless and covered in teeth marks.

And Sylvain is naked on the floor watching laughter fall in shards around him.

And he hates it because it’s not even a beating, but it feels so much worse.

And he hates it because it’s just his clothes, but it feels so much worse.

And he hates it because he doesn’t even move as he waits for them to leave.

And he hates it because he doesn’t move even when they’re gone.

And he hates it while he waits for the sun to set.

And he hates it when he hears his name called by others. 

And he hates it when Old Joe opens the door to the shed and swears at the Goddess.

And he hates it when he’s covered in his jacket and walked back home.

And he hates it when his father asks what happened and he just shrugs his shoulders.

And he hates it when his father yells at him for staying silent.

And he hates it when he climbs into his bed that night and can’t fall asleep.

And he hates it when he gets up and starts his nightly routine all over.

* * *

“You need to do something about that boy,” Old Joe tells his father while he picks up the mess of the shed.

Sylvain’s hidden behind a bush as he presses his ear against the soft wood.

“It’s roughhousing,” his father grunts. “Don’t you have brothers?”

Old Joe scoffs. “Not like that. You need to do something about that boy.”

“You need to do something about this shed. Clean this up. It’s awful.”

“With all due respect–“

“Gautiers are tough. Sylvain will learn to hold his own.”

* * *

Sylvain is ten and when he jumps into the lake in the evening, he knows how to hold his breath as he sinks below the surface. He knows how to open his eyes and look past the burn of his eyes at the murky depths surrounding him.

It’s easy to find quiet in water. It’s easy to find solitude and safety.

Algae tickles his arms as he makes himself stay small and sunken on the lake’s floor. He buries his toes into the sand, and he counts in sets of three, tracing and drawing safety onto his skin with the tip of his finger.

He knows how to tell when his lungs burn past the point of reason, and he knows how to kick up to bring him back to the sky. He knows how to take deep, hungry breaths when his head breaches the surface. He knows how to move his arms and legs, so he stays afloat.

Sylvain knows how to live and even though he’s only ten, he thinks that’s an accomplishment he can be proud of.

Sylvain dives back below the surface and he is an arrow aiming for below. He is a monster at home in his lair. He is a raindrop returning back to Earth.

He knows how to fall and he knows how to live.

He knows how to fall and he knows how to live.

He knows how to fall and he knows how to live.

**Author's Note:**

>  **General Trigger Warnings For:**  
>  -Depictions of physical/verbal/emotional sibling abuse  
> -Parental neglect  
> -Childhood sexual abuse [specifics: at "Sylvain is eight when Miklan waves three gold pieces in front of his face" sylvain's coerced into stealing a nudie magazine. starting at "Sylvain is grabbed by his arm and now Sylvain is a hornet’s nest." Sylvain is forcefully stripped of his clothes.]  
> -Mild self harm in the line that begins "When Felix annoys him"
> 
> also the title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BP6KxfuHXoA)
> 
> my twitter is [here](https://twitter.com/biheretic) along with my curiouscat. and ofc like always comments are always loved and appreciated if u have any questions or whatever nfnbjfbdj


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